


Snow and Brimstone

by PenofFen



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Adventure, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-13
Packaged: 2018-02-15 16:25:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2235654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenofFen/pseuds/PenofFen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Civil War rages and Dragons rise up from the annals of history, Walks-Beyond-Roots takes up his Hist-given mantle and sets out to Skyrim to save the province - and all of Tamriel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**_Prologue: Beyond the Marsh_ **

 

In the dead of night, amidst the rolling waves of the eastern seas, a ship wandered north. The winds were favourable, the weather unusually calm, and now, as the inhabitants of the vessel prepared to settle in for the night, a gentle rain began to fall. The fine ship’s name was Havgakan Kuayl, or “Rising Luck” in the Dunmer tongue. Once upon a time, it had carried Argonian slaves to its native Morrowind. Those days had long passed, though, and now its living cargo was in the form of paying passengers travelling up and down the eastern coast of Tamriel.

One such passenger was an Argonian man who, to those not used to his kind, would have looked much the same as the other Argonians aboard the ship, were it not for the armour he wore, which appeared to be made from the scales of one of Black Marsh’s werecrocodiles, and for the cyan plume of feathers atop his head, held in what appeared to be the equivalent of a ponytail, a long horn on either side of the plume protruding back from his sloped head. His scales, were they in sun or moon light, would have a shiny iridescence, an effect lost now that he and the others had gone below decks and the only light present was the warm orange of the lanterns.

With the _timp timp_ of rain hitting the deck above, the Argonian man set himself down on a crate a small ways from the others and pulled out a leather-bound journal and a quill to write with. He fought the swaying of the boat, keeping his hand steady as he doggedly scrawled out a paragraph or two. With an especially considerable sway of the ship, the light from the hanging lanterns shifted and bounced off the scales of a young Argonian who had taken a seat in the floor in front of the writing man. The writer lifted his pale blue eyes to the youngling and arched a brow.

“Who are you?” the fledgeling asked, yellow eyes casting an inquisitive look at his elder’s book.

The armour-clad writer smiled softly and answered in the sort of rough voice common of Argonians when speaking Cyrodilic, “My name is Walks-Beyond-Roots, young one. And what is yours?”

Shyly, the youngster replied, “Akija. My mother went to get us food in the kitchen. What are you writing?”

“A memoir,” he said, turning the book towards Akija.

“So… like a biography?”

“Yes, exactly, a biography. And where might you be going, little one? You don’t see many Saxhleel going north these days.”

The small Argonian beamed “We’re going to Skyrim! To the College of Winterhold! That’s what momma and pappa said. They wanted to send me to study in Cyrodiil, but… they said Cyrodiil wasn’t too special. Skyrim has snow, they said, do you think I’ll get to see it?”

“Oh, yes, I believe you will. Especially in the north, I’ve heard that it snows quite often. The College of Winterhold? You must be quite bright.”

Akija smiled, trying to contain youthful excitement that was bubbling up near the surface, “That’s what Momma and Pappa say! So, um, why are you writing that memoir?”

Walks shrugged modestly, “Because someday in the future, it might be valuable to have a first-hand account of my history. Not many of those are around, and it makes determining history quite difficult.”

The smaller Argonian tilted its head and sat thoughtfully quiet for several moments, letting the creaks of the ship, the conversations of the other passengers, and the patter of rain fill the silence. At last Akija looked to Walks and and said matter of factly, “...But you don’t look important.”

Rather than frown at the inadvertent insult, Walks laughed, “Indeed, I don’t. But the Hist have spoken to me, and they’ve told me that I’ll play a part in the events to come. Here, you can read what I’ve written so far.” The plumed lizard handed the leather journal to Akija, who read aloud.

“ _‘In the year 201 of the Fourth Era, in a small, fortified town called Helgen, the end of the world began.’_ That was a bit dramatic, don’t you think, Mr. Walks-Beyond-Roots?”

Akija continued, “ _‘A civil war had been raging in the Province of Skyrim, between a crumbling Empire and Skyrim’s Nords, under the banner of a man named Ulfric Stormcloak. He and his rebels, who fought under his namesake, looked to the Empire and saw weakness. They, of course, were correct._ ’’

 _‘The Empire was a shadow of its former glory. Things had been going downhill ever since the beginning of the Fourth Era, and while Tamriel had successfully repelled the advent of Mehrunes Dagon at the turning of the Era, it was at a cost. The Imperial heartland of Cyrodiil was marred by the Daedric invasion, left weak and licking its wounds-...’_ ” The little Argonian stopped reading and looked up, “Sir, none of this is about you.”

Walks patiently smirked, “It’s a prologue. It’s setting the scene for the events to come. It is not about me right now, but if the Hist are right, then it will be.” His feathers ruffled in embarrassment. He had never quite realised how narcissistic that sounded out loud…

Across the room, a slender Argonian woman with greyish-green scales called out “Akija!” and waved her hand to the child.

“That’s momma, she must have food,” the youth said cheerfully, getting up off of the floor and handing back Walks’ memoir. Before turning to leave, Akija asked the older Argonian, “Sir, why did the Hist say you were so important?”

“Well that’s simple, little one,” Walks said as he tucked the book away, resting his hands in his lap.

“Because they say I’m Dragonborn.”

 

 


	2. Walking Into Trouble

_**Walking into Trouble** _

 

It was early Turdas morning when the Havgakan Kuayl reached Windhelm’s port. The light snowfall that the vessel encountered as it ventured north turned into quite the snowstorm as it arrived in the docks. Coming out from below decks, Walks-Beyond-Roots could barely see past his snout through the veil of white in front of him, and his ears were equally disturbed by the howling wind. He felt his body temperature beginning to drop, his scales and light armour only keeping so much heat in, but despite this, he smiled to himself. _Akija will be thrilled._

“WHAT IS THAT, MOMMA?!” shouted a high-pitched voice from behind him. Walks couldn’t quite decide if the outburst sounded terrified or excited… perhaps both. It seemed that Akija was holding up the line out of the ship while marvelling at the falling white things, judging from the angry shouts that began to accumulate. “No, don’t go out there, Momma, they’re swarming! Those white fleshflies are swarming!”

The impatient noises from the other passengers quickly devolved into laughter and Walks smiled and continued on.

Although the process took some time and direction from the crewmen, Walks eventually found the gangplank and descended down to the docks, pulling a cheap burlap cloak over himself as he walked. He, in his _infinite_ foresight, had decided in Black Marsh that a burlap cloak was _surely_ enough to keep him warm. Now that he was out in the elements, however, with the wind piercing through the cloak and whipping it around him uncomfortably (smacking him in the snout on a few occasions, one of which nearly sent him stumbling into the harbour waters), he silently scolded himself.

Walking towards the city from the docks, the Argonian made an attempt to take note of the people he passed, despite the blizzard making acute observations somewhat difficult. He passed numerous other Argonians, some of which he recognised as passengers and crewmen from the Havgakan Kuayl, others of which were completely new to him and seemed to be working the docks as if the cold was nothing to them. There were other races, too, of course, such a loudmouthed Dunmer woman that Walks heard rather than saw, a couple of men in helmets that covered their faces, and a redhaired woman clad in furs, helping the dock workers.

Walks turned the corner and ascended up the stone ramp towards the entrance to the city. Although the tall stone walls on either side of the walkway helped take the edge off of the snowstorm, the visibility was horrible and forced the Argonian to move slowly in order to not accidentally run into anything. A powerful headwind blew against his face, and it felt like the gale was slicing holes through his scales. At least his cloak was no longer hitting him in the face.

At last, the lizard found the entrance to the great city, a tall, metal gate with a couple of men beside it who wore those face-covering helmets. Guards, apparently.

Walks put his hands on the freezing metal of the gate and gave a push. The hinges were a bit frozen, but the huge gate gave way and opened with a loud screech. As soon as the opening was wide enough for him to get through, Walks squeezed himself between the doors of the gate and passed into the city, glad to be within the walls of Windhelm and to have his hands off of the frigid metal. Behind him, the door slowly screeched shut again, and for a moment, he thought he heard someone shout.

The wind and snow were fading, allowing Walks to take in the sight of the city before him. Windhelm was magnificent. Even where he stood, in the backstreets, with only a clear view of the alleys, Walks was taken by just how foreign and interesting his whereabouts were. On all sides rose tall, stone walls, the likes of which he had never seen in Black Marsh; the swamps were not often cooperative with permanent, heavy materials like stone, much less such massive constructions. The nearest thing he had seen were the giant temples scattered about the parts of the swamp where the soil was less likely to give way, but even those seemed to pale in comparison to _these walls_. He marvelled at the apartments as he wandered, ignoring the occasional Dunmer he saw sneering at him from balconies or stone porches. Hanging banners and tapestries of Morrowind design billowed in the wind, hanging lanterns shimmying in the wind on their ropes that overlooked the streets. The whole city thus far seemed remarkably grey, from the ground to the walls to the faded banners on either side. He was coming into a large open space at the end of the street when he heard clamoring footsteps behind him.

The next thing he knew, he was being yanked by his cloak and was subsequently on the ground. With a glance up, he saw one of the Windhelm guard leering down at him.

“What do you think you’re doing inside the city, _lizard_?” the guard spat out in his thick Nord accent, hand hovering over the pummel of the mace at his belt, “Get back to the docks!”

“Excuse me?” Walks answered, trying to not hiss or bare his teeth, “I have every right to be in this city, do I not? Have I done something?”

“Don’t play games, lizard, you know your kind isn’t allowed within the walls, now come on!”

Walks failed to contain his anger well enough to continue hiding his pointed teeth, and the guard drew his mace in response. Judging from the voice, he sounded young, and judging from the alacrity in drawing his weapon, he seemed especially jumpy. Seeing the growing tension, two other guards in the nearby courtyard rushed over to the scene.

“I’m only passing through, warmblood,” Walks responded coldly.

“Doesn’t matter, after what your kind pulled last week, there are no lizards allowed in the city under any circumstances!”

“I am only passing through,” he repeated as he got to his feet.

The guard, exasperated by the resistance and already jumpy, was startled to see the Argonian rise and lifted up his mace over his helmeted head. Walks’ icy blue eyes narrowed to slits, focusing on the weapon, which only startled the guard further, who swung the mace at Walks’ head. Behind him, Walks heard the other guards shout at their younger comrade to stop, but it was already too late. The weapon was already swinging down toward the Argonian, and the Argonian was already in motion.

Swivelling on one foot, Walks narrowly avoided the mace, so close that he could feel the air displaced by it. In one motion continuing from the last, he swung his leg to the back of the guard’s own legs and, a second later, Walks heard the satisfying sound of the back of the Nord’s helmet striking the stone ground. The other two guards advanced from behind, seeing their ally fall to the floor. Walks’ feathers ruffled as he saw the two coming nearer from the corner of his eye.

The first one to advance was a large, heavy-built woman wielding a halberd. She lifted it over her shoulder with both hands and rushed at the Argonian, bringing the halbert down hard. Walks remained rooted in his spot, lifting his clawed hands in a ready stance. As the guard swung the heavy weapon at Walks’ shoulder, he lifted his arm, striking the pole of the weapon with his wrist guard at a slight angle. With a fluid motion, Walks stepped forward with one foot, pushed the still descending halberd to the side, and thrusted an open palm at the guard’s chest.

The impact resonated with a resounding _thump_ and the guard lumbered back, the head of her weapon bouncing on the stone and slipping from her grip to rattle on the ground. A meter away from Walks now, the guard sunk to her knees with a hand over her chest, trying to catch her breath. Walks nodded before glaring at the other guard. _That should keep her out of the fight for awhile._ Her comrade stared at her for a few moments, seeming to weigh his options before sprinting at the Argonian, sword and shield ready and shouting for aid from the other guards who might have been close enough to hear the commotion.

This warrior, presumably another Nord, was a man with a slightly lighter build than his companion with the halberd. His uniform armour seemed to show more wear than the previous two assailants. _A veteran_. He began with a feint attack, looking as if he would swing his sword, but then slamming Walks’ snout with his shield. Walks stumbled a couple steps, only to find the pummel of the veteran’s sword slammed into his neck. The Argonian reacted just quick enough to avert the cold metal from hitting his windpipe. He stumbled, then tripped on the slick stones, finding himself on his rear, looking up at the advancing guard, whose sword was lifted and ready to strike.

Then, in the course of a second or so, the veteran was gone from in front of Walks as an unfamiliar mass slammed into the guard and tackled him to the ground, sending his sword loudly sliding across the pavement. The unknown tackler got to her feet, grunting out an appeal for Walks to run and offering a hand to help him up. He looked up to the woman and recognised her by her hair: dark crimson, wavy, and short. It was the Nord woman in furs he had seen helping the dock workers. The Argonian accepted her hand and pulled himself up, and soon the pair were running to the front gates of the city.

Walks didn’t question the identity of his newfound ally, at least not yet. There were two guards in pursuit with a greatsword and a spear, and two others were firing off arrows that struck the stone pavement near the retreating duo’s feet. Those took some precedence over introductions.

The woman barrelled through the main gate, tackling the doors open in much the same way she had tacked the guard, and Walks followed after her outside, where the snowstorm was beginning to pick up again. Whipping winds and thick veils of snow bombarded the Argonian, but he could see and move well enough to follow the woman, who seemed to know where they were going. The wind was a blessing in some regards, at least to the two fugitives; it blew the guards arrows off course and made pursuit more difficult. Walks and the woman sprinted down the long stone bridge that led out of Windhelm, then turned northeast on the road, following the White River. Walks wasn’t quite sure at what point they lost the Windhelm Guard, he was much too focussed on keeping his new comrade in sight, lest he get lost in the snowstorm, himself. They veered off the road after a bit, the woman slowing her pace as she neared the bank of the river.

“Where are we going?” Walks called out against the howling wind.

“I’ll show you,” replied the woman, who was by now examining the bank of the river quite closely as they trudged through the snow. Finally, they reached a part of the riverbank where the woman stopped. She pointed to the river in front of them. “You can swim, right?”

Walks thought she was crazy. “That water will kill us! It is cold enough out here to freeze the Deadlands over twice.”

“Oh, is it? I hadn’t even noticed,” she smirked sarcastically, “Now come on, do you want the guards to find us when the storm clears?”

She did have a point. Walks sighed and nodded acceptance to the Nord, who promptly dove into the water. Hesitantly, Walks did that same. The water was, as expected, frigidly cold. Walks felt his breath leave him despite his gills, his heart pumping in his chest. His scales felt cold enough to crack and shatter, and his snout lost all feeling in the tip. A brief feeling of panic overtook him, before he managed to fight past it. The Argonian forced his limbs to move, propelling him through the water close behind the Nord woman, who disappeared in a hidden alcove near the edge of the riverbed which Walks had not seen before jumping in. He followed her through and, before long, they resurfaced inside a cave.

“Old smuggler’s den,” the woman explained through chattering teeth, “Doesn’t get much use in the cold months, for obvious reasons.” Walks squinted at the cave around him. It was dark and… blurry. He had assumed that the blurred vision had only been an effect of being underwater, but now that he was out, it continued. He tried to focus his eyes on the woman, whose words and form became increasingly indistinct. He began to feel dizzy and the cave seemed to start spinning, until finally, his vision and sense went black.


	3. Beyond the Law

**_Beyond the Law_ **

 

When Walks opened his eyes, it was the next day. Tiny rays of sunshine pierced through openings in the ceiling of the cave like golden ribbons pulled taut between the roof and the floor. Beside him were the smoldering remains of a campfire that he guessed had been the Nord woman’s work. The ground was grey and dirty, complimenting the walls and ceiling. Slowly, the Argonian sat up, taking further note of his surroundings.

It was the same cave he and the woman had escaped into, as far as he could tell. He remembered her saying that it was an old smuggler’s refuge (during the summer months, due to reasons he had become well acquainted with ), and the remnants of the last denizens’ stay there were scattered about the chamber: empty barrels and bottles of assorted beverage strewn about, several bedrolls littering the floor, along with blankets of various sizes and a few racks to hang up wet clothing. One rack still had clothing on it, even. In fact, some of it looked remarkably like…

The Argonian blinked and looked down at himself then back to the rack, where his leather-and-werecrocodile-scale armour was hung to dry. He himself was wrapped snuggly in one of the blankets that the smugglers had left behind. Walks could feel his feathers ruffle on the back of his head, the blood rushing to his face, both of which would luckily be imperceptible to most non-Argonians. Then the woman walked around the corner, wrapped up in her own blanket like it was a dress and brandished two bottles of what Walks presumed to be mead.

The woman smiled cheerfully to him, either unaware or disregardful of his embarrassment, “Ah, the champion of the hour is awake! I was a bit worried about you when you passed out, but I knew you had it in you!” She beamed at her apparent gift of good judgement.

Now that they were not fighting guards, running from guards, or unconscious, Walks finally got to take a more careful observation of the Nord that had intervened last night. She was taller than Walks was, though Walks was not exceptionally tall for an Argonian, so most Nords had at least a couple of inches on him. She appeared well-muscled, about as toned as Walks was, and her hands and feet were noticeably callused. Her dark crimson hair was pulled back now, but Walks remembered it being wavy the day earlier. The skin tone of the woman was unusually dark for a Nord. Not quite to the degree of looking Redguard or even a darker Imperial, but noticeably tan nonetheless. Considering her build and calluses, Walks assumed it was from working outside in the docks for long periods of time.

The Argonian nodded to the woman and opened his mouth to speak. He _wanted_ to ask about why and how he was only wearing a blanket despite passing out fully clothed. But there were more important questions, so he forwent that inquiry. “Who are you?” the lizard asked, perhaps a bit more curtly than he had intended. The woman sat down across the campfire and smirked, passing a mead bottle to him.

“Name’s Saga Ice-Carver,” she said, popping the cork off of her own bottle, “Sailor, hired muscle, professional troublemaker, rabble-rouser, and general ne’er-do-well.”

“I suppose that answers my second question,” Walks quipped. When met with a curious look from the woman, he elaborated, “Why you helped me.”

Saga laughed briefly, hearty and rough, “Eh, don’t worry too much about that, the Windhelm Guard had it comin’. I saw what happened, they just came at you like wolves. Besides, I liked the look of you.”

“They did seem a bit on-edge. Is that normal in the city? Are they usually so harsh on visitors?” he asked, assuming this Nord woman knew more than he about the city than he.

The woman gave a half-hearted shrug followed by a swig of mead, “Yes and no. They’re not usually the nicest to people who aren’t human, but, the past week, they’ve been especially pushy.” Saga swivelled herself on the floor to let her bare feet rest by the warmth of the fire and continued, “You came at a bad time. A week ago, the Argonians at the docks got fed up of their bad treatment and broke into the city proper. Nothing major, mostly just broken windows, but the Guard… took it kind of personally. Since then, the tensions have been high, and the Guard have been jumpy.”

Walks nodded, “I see. So that’s why they said ‘lizards’ aren’t allowed in the city?” On some level, he understood the reasoning, but it still seemed a tad excessive to him. Not that he hadn’t witnessed xenophobia in Black Marsh, with the An-Xileel regulating travel by foreigners into the Province and being general arses to non-Argonians. Asking the Hist about their opinion of the An-Xileel tended to be taboo, but the party claimed to be acting on the Hist’s wishes, so he tried to not dwell on it.

“Well, that’s complicated,” she confessed, “The story Ulfric and the guard always give is that it’s to keep the Dunmer and Argonians away from each others throats, but not everyone believes that. Anyway, I’ve told you who I am, now who the hell are you?” she smirked.

_Ah, I understand Windhelm a bit better now. They’re just like the An-Xileel,_ Walks thought, before getting to his feet (and tying the blanket securely around his waist) and taking a respectful bow to the Nord. “I am Walks-Beyond-Roots. The Hist sent me here, but when I entered the city… well, you saw what happened.” He sat back down promptly, awkwardly getting into a position that didn’t offer certain views.

Saga nodded knowingly, “Why would they send you to this mammoth piss-hole of a Province? There’s a war going on, you know.”

“Two, actually,” Walks corrected, “The Civil War and the war on the dragons. I’m here for the latter.”

The woman sized him up mockingly, then let out another one of those sailor laughs, “The Hist sent you here to die, then, friend. Those things are bloody huge. And they breathe fire. Or other stuff. And they’re up in the air half the time. And I’ve heard the scales are strong enough to make swords bounce right off. I’d even think twice before going toe-to-claw with one.”

Walks frowned, “They’ve not sent me to die. That would be pointless, and besides that, it’s my destiny.”

The Nord laughed loud enough that her voice filled the cave, “Your destiny? I don’t know what that tree sap did to your head, but-”

“I am Dragonborn!” he blurted out indignantly. It was one thing to poke fun at him, but the Hist were something very different, very sacred. They were older than even the Mer on Tamriel and the Argonians revered them as gods. They were considered nigh omniscient and their plans were considered as good as law. So, when the word of the Hist was that Walks-Beyond-Roots’ destiny was to help defend the world from the dragons, he took up the mantle gladdly.

Saga had gone quiet. She stared at the Argonian again, sizing him up more seriously this time. She spoke more tentatively, now, “That’s impossible. There’s not been a Dragonborn in centuries. They’re a dead breed.”

“So are dragons, but there they are,” he said coolly, “The dragons are returning, and so the dragonborn are, too. That is what the Hist told me.”

Saga sat stunned for awhile, visibly still skeptical. Finally, however, she got to her feet and gave a resounding clap of her hands, “Well, there’s only one way to know for sure! The Greybeards up in Hrothgar’ll know. We should go there.” She trotted over to the drying rack and examined her furs and Walks’ armour, making certain they were finally dry. Letting out an annoyed growl at the slight on the Hist, Walks replied, “We should go? Why are you coming along?”

The Nord glanced back and gave a quick, meaningful look with a jerk of her head, which was met by what passed as a confused expression from the Argonian. “Don’t look,” she fussed, prompting Walks to turn his head away. As a further measure, he shut his eyes as well. She continued speaking, accompanied by the sound of rustling fabric and fur, “Well, obviously, you can’t stay out of trouble, based on what I saw in Windhelm. Which makes you my kind of person. You can handle yourself in a fight, and if you really are Dragonborn, I’ll have a story fit for a Jarl by the time it’s all over.”

Walks furrowed his brow, “Why _did_ you jump into that fight? Really, I mean. You couldn’t have seen what was happening unless you had been following me. Were you going to rob me?”

Saga feigned an insulted tone, “Rob you? Please, travellers like you barely carry the septims to buy a few nights’ room and- you can look now, by the way -room and board. I followed you because I saw your armour.”

Walks opened his pales eyes and looked back to the now fully-clothed woman. “My armour?” he asked, perplexed, “You wanted my armour?”

“No no, nothing like that. The only folks you see coming in wearing armour are the pirates and the adventurers. Figured that either way, you might want to take another on your crew. You’ll want to get dressed, too, probably. Just saying.”

Walks quickly hopped up, keeping his blanket secure around his waist, “So you’re looking for work, then? I truly don’t have the money to pay you.”

Saga smiled brightly, “See, that’s the beauty of it. Y’don’t have to. Bein’ an adventurer, you’re gonna run into a lot of thugs and bandits and probably stumble on a lot of treasure. All I ask is a share. Sixty-forty. I take the sixty.”

The Argonian considered the offer, before finally nodding to his new ally. It seemed like a fair enough deal. He had little use for money, himself and it would be useful to have some backup if he ran into trouble. Furthermore, he realised that he needed a guide, and this Nord fit the bill nicely. And although he hated to admit it, it would be nice to have someone to talk to.

 

“Great!” she exclaimed, “We need to get up to Hrothgar, then! C’mon, there’s no time to waste, get dressed.” She finished by mumbled the last bit, “Not like I haven’t already seen you naked, anyway.”

“What?”

“Oh, nothing.”

 

* * *

 

_Elsewhere…_

 

Aodh Muir stepped out of his tent with a sigh. A content sigh, as it happened, which was unusual for the Dunmer. It had been unusually cold that year, resulting in the almost unheard of: a light snowfall in the middle of the (normally) aptly-named Fall Forests of the Rift. A little chill ran up Aodh’s back, but he smiled softly to himself. He liked snow. Something about the slow, gentle descent of the little white flakes brought him a sense of peace, even in more stressful situations. And it didn’t have quite the same tendency to chill one to the bone as rain often did in the cold.

Enjoying the crisp air and solitude, he nonetheless grabbed his crossbow from his tent and checked the perimeter of his camp. Tall, orange and yellow trees stretched into the sky on all sides, some of which were dropping their leaves due to the onset of the cold. Aodh narrowed his deep red eyes at the gaps between the trees, looking for the silhouette of a bear or wolf or, Azura forbid, a sabre cat. Luckily, the area seemed clear. With a nod, he made his way over to his tent again, crackling leaves underfoot.

Inside his tent, a decently sized structure made mainly of leather, the Dunmer took stock of his supplies. One fur satchel filled with food and herbs sat in the corner, next to his armoured knee-high boots. In the middle of the tent lay a fur bedroll and a cloak made from the pelt of an elk, which he used as a blanket. Beside the bedroll was a neatly folded lump of chain mail, his outer tunic. Off to the side was the rest of his armour, his coin purse, a canteen of water, and two quivers: the larger full of arrows, the smaller full of bolts. Finally, a bow and a shortsword sat in the back of his tent.

With movements drilled into his head through repeated routine, Aodh set to work getting ready to head out. First, his chain mail tunic went on, stretching down nearly to his knees. He tied his belt around his waist, secured his purse, canteen, and quivers to it, then donned his armour: a shiny steel set consisting of a smooth breastplate, rounded pauldrons, gauntlets , and the knee-high metal boots. Finally, his satchel and sheath for the shortsword were slung over his shoulder along with the elk cloak. After a minute or two of fixing his collar-length, jet black hair, Aodh nodded in satisfaction and within half an hour, the rest of the camp had been properly packed or disposed of and the Dunmer set off toward the main road.

He had heard mysterious reports from near this area, spoken in hushed tones in the the cities of the Rift. Necromancers or vampires, the rumours couldn’t agree on which. Maybe both. In either case, people had been taken, and the Rift Guard were of no help. One little squad of their men got decimated, and they turned with their tails between their legs and ran. No further squads had been deployed. Aodh scoffed. The cowards.

Walking resolutely down the stone-paved roads, Aodh fished a sprig of wheat from his satchel and nonchalantly chewed on it, crossbow cradled in his arms in case of trouble. This would be the second vampire nest he’d invaded this month, or alternatively the fifth necromancer den. When he started up the witchhunting career, he knew that there was a problem in Skyrim, but now that he had been working for a year or so, he realised just how right he had been. Skyrim was positively _infested_ with necromancers, vampires, werewolves, warlocks, witches, cultists, and daedra. The so-called “Vigilants” of Stendarr got too caught up in their religious zeal against daedra and neglected the other threats to Skyrim and Tamriel.

And Aodh intended to set that right. Abuse of magic, vampirism, lycanthropy, and the like had gone unchecked for long enough. Of course, he did not mean to fight a war like that single-handedly. Sure, he was working alone now, but once he had gained the notoriety and the funds that he needed, the Dunmer would get to his endgame.

His thoughts were cut short, however, when he came upon a cave off the road a bit, conveniently flanked by reanimated skeletons. It amazed him, sometimes, how bad these people were at hiding their lair. They might as well have put up torches and a “Do Not Enter” sign-

Which they had in fact done. The entrance to the cave had several torches nearby, practically pointing arrows at the opening in the stone, and sure enough, a wooden board was posted just above it, with “Do Not Enter” written in big, red letters.  Somehow, necromancers were getting stupider. With an exasperated huff, Aodh knelt down in the dirt and took aim at the skeleton guards, giving off their trademark creaking noise.

With one shot, a steel bolt pierced one skeleton’s skull, and the entire depraved creature crumbled into a pile of assorted bones. Its companion shared its fate before it could even shamble halfway to Aodh. The witchhunter got back to his feet, heedless of the clunking his boots made or the jangling of his chain mail. He didn’t particularly care if they heard him ahead of time. Perhaps the early notice would give them time to pray.


	4. Fire and Bone

_**Fire and Bone** _

 

Aodh, with heavy footsteps, trudged into the cave. Loose gravel underfoot and a considerable slope to the entry corridor forced him to keep his eyes down and his mind focused on the ground under his feet, while the _chunk chunk_ of his armour made listening difficult. He was walking in blind. His cautious steps were in vain, however, when the gravel beneath him shifted unexpectedly. Within the span of a few moments, the Dunmer had been thrown onto his rear, lost grip of his crossbow, and slid all the way to the bottom of the slope. He cursed under his breath, then conjured an orb of light to illuminate the cave.

No sooner did the light fill the corridor then it hit the expressionless face of a skeleton a meter away, aiming an old bow at Aodh. His eyes widened and he quickly rolled on the ground to the right then, a moment later, a cheap arrow embedded itself in the gravel beside him. Aodh scrambled to his feet, neglected to take the time to retrieve his crossbow from the floor, and instead rushed straight at the amalgamation of bones. The skeleton began to nock another arrow, but within a couple of seconds, Aodh was upon it, smashing into its ribs with the back of him steel-clad arm. The brittle bones caved in and the eerie cyan light faded from the skeleton’s eye sockets. Ahead was a large chamber, torch-lit and populated.

The Dunmer rushed back to retrieve his crossbow, then assumed his normal combat strategy: slow, resolute, unyielding advance. By that time, as planned, the inhabitants of the chamber had taken notice of the intruder and rushed (as well as an assortment of skeletons and zombies can rush, that is) at the lone witchhunter. Aodh lay down a couple of fire runes ahead of him, one on either side of his path, then took aim at the nearest enemy: a shambling zombie wielding a warhammer it could barely lift. The fragile-looking thrall was clearly the work of a novice. With an echoing _thimp_ from the crossbow, a bolt penetrated the advancing revenant’s leg, causing it to lose its balance, the heavy weapon pulling it down to the ground.

The pitiful thing fell flat on its face.

Next came a skeleton in an old battered suit of Imperial armour. Fairly common sight. These days, Aodh was seeing more and more zombies and skeletons that were harvested from battlefields. The war itself had gone stagnant with the onset of Winter (not even the Nords were dense enough to launch a major campaign in the middle of Evening Star), so fresh casualties were infrequent. But if a necromancer happened to stumble upon a mass grave at the site of a skirmish…

Aodh flung a fireball from his hand and it shot through the air at the thrall, the heat intense enough that the bones practically disintegrated. More of the profligate creatures advanced on Aodh even as he advanced on them. He saw now that many of the fiends were clad in Imperial or Stormcloak armour, to the point that it appeared that the undead battalion had been harvested almost exclusively from military burials.

Aodh sneered.

_Shameful._

Another skeleton came from behind; Aodh turned and belted it in its face with the butt of his crossbow, the skull so brittle that it shattered on impact. A zombie approached to his left; a second later, a bolt punctured a hole in its helmet and it collapsed. All the while, the Dunmer made steady progress towards the midpoint between his two runes.

With a burst of speed, he rammed through the skeletons’ ranks, pushing past the mob and between the runes, putting the flame traps between him and the storming horde. With a spin on his heel, he planted his feet firmly and took aim at the tougher-looking thralls. A heavily-armoured skeleton at one o’clock; a big bruiser of a zombie with a spear at ten o’clock; an armoured skeleton archer at twelve. They fell one after the other, their comrades advancing heedless of the casualties. Finally, a skeleton stepped too close. Just a step. Just an inch. Just close enough to one of his traps…

The air ahead of Aodh seemed to ignite as one rune set off the other in a brilliant orange eruption. The sound was deafening, reverberating off the walls, jarring his armour, shaking his bones. The swarm ahead of him was now a sluggishly moving and rapidly decreasing crowd, at best. A wall of fire and ash. The gambit was more effective than he had expected; the walking cadavers that the evidently unskilled mages had enthralled were exceptionally feeble. Brittle. Pitiful.

And for a moment, watching the company of these depraved creatures collapse or disintegrate en masse, Aodh did pity them. They had been warriors in life. Their comrades had lain them to rest at the battlefields where they fought and died. But rather than rest, here they were, forced to fight anew. Ironically, the only soldiers that were safe from the harvests were the ones on the losing end of battles; both sides tended to burn the bodies of fallen enemies as a sign of disrespect.

He pushed the thought out of his head. Focused his indignation on his goal: the necromancers responsible for this atrocity. As the last of the horde fell in flames, Aodh turned his back to them and trudged on deeper into the cave’s torchlit interior.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Meanwhile_

_Southern Eastmarch, Skyrim_

 

“Are you quite certain you know which way we’re going?” Walks asked as the pair hiked along the trail. That was about the fifth time Saga had heard him ask something like that, and she was about ready to turn around and belt the lizard in the face. Not that it hadn’t been a pleasant enough walk otherwise, but she was certainly getting tired of that skeptical, mildly worried tone every time she stopped to look at a road sign.

Saga had fortunately found a less wet route out of their cave hideout that morning, though it let them out a bit further north than she liked, considering their destination was to the south. Nonetheless, they were making good time. By midday, they had passed Windhelm;  now, at sunset, Kynesgrove was behind them. Slowly but steadily, they were making their way to Ivarstead and Hrothgar.

To pass the time, the travellers kept up a conversation. Mostly inane things, early on, such as how it was abnormally cold that year, how to deal with stumbling upon giant camps, and what Walks’ ship ride was like, but as time wore on, they slowly moved to deeper conversation, such as Saga’s family (a subject she _masterfully_ diverted with a shrug and a “Not much to talk about”).

“So how exactly did you find out that you’re Dragonborn, then?” she asked inquisitively, despite already having a feeling she knew what his answer would be.

“The Hist told me.” He said it as if those four words could explain away anything and everything.

Saga sighed. She was right. “ _Of course_ they did. Well, how did they tell you? Do they have giant tree-mouths that they use- ew, I think I just lost my appetite thinking about that…”

The Argonian snorted indignantly, “No, the connection is spiritual. They speak to minds, not to ears.”

“Voices in your head, eh? Sounds crazy, to me. But what do the voices say?” She knew she was egging him on, of course, and probably saying things that would in all likelihood merit an execution in Black Marsh. But they weren’t in Black Marsh. And she was bored. Walks had gotten strangely quiet, though.

“What, Khajiit got your tongue?” she said teasingly.

Walks hesitated a moment, before speaking up, “Actually… I’ve… never heard the Hist, before.”

“But you said they told you that you’re-”

“I didn’t say the told me directly. They used a speaker, a priest, to tell me. Told me that the reason I can’t hear them is because of my Dragonblood.”

Saga’s brows furrowed, “Why in Oblivion would that matter?”

“A Dragonborn’s soul comes directly from Akatosh. A _true Argonian’s_ soul is from the Hist.” He said the words “true Argonian” with an almost mournful tone. Saga didn’t quite understand the dilemma of her companion, of course, having never met a Black Marsh Argonian before. But she could see that it pained him, so she moved on.

“Well, they must think well enough of you to send you as the hero of Tamriel, aye?” she commented, noticing another fork in the road up ahead. “What exactly was the plan they told you?”

“I am to come to Skyrim, stop the dragons, and save the world,” he answered calmly. Saga marvelled for a moment at how easily Argonians could control their emotions. Of all the Argonians she had worked with in the past, whether on ships or on docks, not a single one had shown anything but a stoic face for more than a few moments. It was as impressive as it was off-putting at times.

“Alright, part one: check. You’re in Skyrim. How did they say you’d stop the dragons? They’re pretty big, I’ve heard, and hard to kill… What’s the plan there?”

“Oh. Well, I don’t know.”

Saga stopped dead in her tracks. “You don’t _know_?” she snorted. It must have been some of that deadpan humour that Argonians were fond of.

“No, I don’t. They didn’t tell me that part.”

Oh gods, he wasn’t joking.

“So you came all the way to _Skyrim, across the bloody continent,_ without any idea of how you’re going to do this?”

The Argonian bowed his head shamefully, “They said that I’d know the way once I arrived, and to trust my instincts… It’s my destiny...”

_Sounds like the lines from a cheap fortune-teller_ , she thought to herself, though she decided against saying it out loud. The distressed lizard man was already looking like a child that had just been scolded. Admittedly, it was slightly unsettling that this Argonian was going to try to save the world with nary an idea of how to go about it. Still… if those Hist were right (which she hoped the Greybeards could confirm), the glorious -and profitable- life of a hero was miles more appealing than being a salty, no-good sea dog. All the adventure she’d get on the sea, plus some respect, plus just as much gold, plus a healthy dose of Nordic glory. It was an equation she liked.

Rather than lecture the lizard (she hated lecturing anyway), Saga simply sighed and took a look around her. “Well, I guess you’ll find a way, in that case.”

Evergreen trees rose into the air on the travellers’ left, and on the right, there was the slope that lead down to the lowland hot springs. The sky was a pleasant orange, by then, and appeared considerably warmer than the air felt. Saga’s fur clothing kept her warm, but she did wonder how her Argonian companion was fairing. Argonians that were born in Skyrim could shake off the cold nearly as well as an Imperial or Breton, but this Walks-Beyond-Roots was straight from the tropical swamps of Black Marsh. Maybe they should have sought out a merchant to buy some warmer clothing for him. Poor fellow.

“Is this _truly_ the right way, Saga?”

And just like that, her pity faded.

“Yes, I am _sure_ this is the right way,” she explained exasperatedly, “Both paths around the sulfur ponds are about as long as each other. The eastern route we took will take us just as long as the western one would.”

“Couldn’t we cut through the sulfur ponds?”

“Well, we _could_ , but once night falls, the place is overrun by sabercats,” she explained, trying to hide her annoyance.

“We can both handle ourselves,” the lizard responded naively. He must have had a mental image of something smaller and less threatening than a sabercat in his head. Still, he came from Black Marsh, and they say that practically everything tries to kill you there, and it _would_ cut down their travel time…

“Alright, fine,” she sighed, “have it your way. Keep your eyes open, though, the sabers come at you fast.”

And with that, she led Walks down the slope to their right, down to the lowlands of Eastmarch, to the sulfur ponds. The hot springs were a popular rest stop for travellers of all sorts, from hunters to adventurers to merchants and everything in between. It was a nice place to relax and rest your feet after a long day of walking, and some people even claimed restorative properties of the springs. But that was during the day. When it was dark, sabercats prowled around the lowlands, using the heat from the springs both for its warmth and its tendency to draw in prey seeking said warmth.

Saga smirked to herself, wondering what exactly that made her and Walks.

She and Walks both kept sharp eyes out for the hulking felines as they navigated the springs. No sign of them, yet, but sabers were stealthy when they wanted to be. Saga knew that there was likely one trailing them even then. She could feel it. But after several minutes of walking westward, neither of the pair had even heard a growl. In fact, their surroundings were oddly quiet in general. It made Saga uneasy, and when she glanced back to the Argonian, she saw he was on edge, too. At least one of those cats should have sprung out to attack already. But the adventurers kept walking, the sky kept darkening, and the lowlands kept getting quieter.

After marching on for several minutes longer, the lowlands became too dark for either traveller to  see further than half a meter ahead of them, so Saga pulled a torch from her pack. The torch wasn’t that bright once lit, but it was at least enough for them to see where they were going. “I think we’re going to have to walk through the night,” she said quietly, “I don’t wanna camp out here.” To her brief satisfaction, the Argonian agreed without a hint of skepticism, and they continued on. Then something odd caught her eye. A little ways ahead and to the left was a pile of bones, the orange glow from her torch just barely reaching the remains.

_Not human bones: too big and thick to be human. It looks more like the skeleton of a…_ “Sabercat?” Saga thought aloud, “And it’s been picked clean. How in Oblivion…?”

They approached the skeleton and Saga ran through a list of things that could have done this to something as large and ferocious as a saber cat. _Sabers don’t usually attack each other… Hunters? No, they usually take the carcass back to camp to skin and butcher… Horkers have been known to take down sabercats on rare occasions. But a horker this far south? Could have been a bear…_

Then she stepped in the ash.

She looked at her feet and saw the ground had been scorched, all the plants singed away. The ivory bones contrasted against the dark ash under and around them. This was no brush fire.

Quickly, Saga extinguished the torch, wary of what might see the light it made, but by then it was too late. A loud, screeching howl came from behind. From _above_ and behind.

“Run, you icebrain!” she called out to Walks, only to turn around and see him transfixed. When she followed his gaze, she saw why.

At first, the shape was indistinct, the edges obscured by the night. But the movement was recognisable. As was the size. The approaching figure was huge. For a moment, Saga wondered how it managed to fly, until she saw the massive scale of its flapping wings. As it got closer, she could just barely make out the scaly texture of its hide, the gold shining of its eyes…

The realisation of the situation suddenly dawned on the Nord again, and she reached out to grab Walks’ arm, tugging him brusquely with her as she bound away from the gargantuan creature that was closing in on them. The Argonian lurched as if waking from a dream, but had little choice but to keep pace with the retreating Nord; she was still gripping his arm quite tightly and had resolved herself to not let go until they were safe.

The pair ran as quickly as they could away from the monster, but to no avail. The flying creature was too fast and easily caught up to them. It began to circle them, as if teasing them while trying to decide how best to eat them. _Roasted, of course._

Saga, with Walks in tow, weaved between the boulders and occasional tree of the lowlands, leaping through plumes of steam from the thermal vents and splashing through the hot springs. All the while the dragon kept up and continued to circle the unfortunate travellers. It seemed their journey would reach an end before it had even begun.

Then, curiously, Walks rushed ahead of the Nord, pulling her along rather than the other way around. He was making a mad sprint towards a rocky hill (a tall mound of boulders, really) up ahead that had just come into view, and while Saga didn’t know why he was so determined to reach it, a feeling in the pit of her gut told her that that was the way to go. Halfway to the hill, a booming voice filled the air. _“YOL TOOR SHUL”_ The sound of it prompted Saga and Walks to both run faster, well before they saw the fire rain down to their right.

A second later, perhaps five, perhaps ten (it was rather difficult to discern time spans as they ran for their lives), the entire lowlands seemed to erupt in fire. Saga felt the sting of the inferno on her skin and had to repeatedly check her furs for clinging flames. They were almost there, though, nearly to the mass of boulders. She could see clearly where they were going: there was an opening in the hill, a cave going down below. There, they could hide and hopefully be safe.

The dragon, regrettably, saw where they were going as well.

Ahead of the retreating pair, a flash of orange light flared in front of the cave entrance. “Damn it!” Saga shouted as the entire escape went up in literal flames. But Walks kept running. So did Saga. They both seemed to come to the conclusion that burning and getting into the cave would be significantly better than staying outside and burning. Flames licked at their clothes, singed their hair (or feathers, in the Argonian’s case), and the ground beneath their feet felt hot enough to fuse their boots to the stones if they stood still for too long. Luckily, standing still was the last thing on either of their minds.

_Just a couple more meters,_ Saga thought, willing her limbs to keep moving even as the flames around them began to close in. It wouldn’t be long until they were both engulfed.

_Just a bit more._

_Almost there._

A wall of fire blocked their path, but the cave entrance was just on the other side. Saga offered a silent prayer to Kynareth as she and Walks sprinted toward it. And just as the dragon behind them pronounced _“YOL_ ” again, they lept through the blaze and into the cave behind it.

It hurt immensely. Worse than the time that Saga had nearly gotten frostbite while sailing on the Sea of Ghosts (an incident she only managed through with the help of the crew’s healer). Her furs were all set ablaze, she was quite certain of it, now. Helplessly, she thrashed and rolled on the cave floor to snuff them out, in a hurry to be able to move away from the spot. She knew that if they stayed that close to the cave opening, then the dragon could simply...

A deafening thud filled the cavern, and Saga didn’t need to look over to know that the dragon had landed just outside. Her clothes were mostly out, but by then, it didn’t matter anymore. The dragon opened its mouth, orange light radiating from its throat already.

_“YOL”_

_This is it._

_“TOOR”_

_Help me, Kyne._

_“SHUL”_

_Sorry, Ma…_

 

 


	5. The Icy Grip

_**The Icy Grip** _

 

Saga Ice-Carver braced herself for the searing heat of dragonfire. There was no way to run. No way to hide. No way to fight. The helplessness of it made her feel as if her bones were already burning up well before the actual fires reached her.

Except that they didn't reach her.

She blinked her eyes open in confusion, too soon to feel actual relief. She heard the screeching roar of the dragon’s combusting breath outside. She saw the cave corridor illuminated by the brilliance of the dragon’s fire. But she neither saw nor felt any fire on her. For that matter, there was none around her, either. She looked to Walks, who looked back with an expression she assumed was just as confused as hers. It was rather hard to tell with Argonians.

There was no fire in the cave at all. Her gaze shot to the mouth of the cavern, where the dragon was indeed positioned, just outside, breathing its fire towards the pair. But curiously, the flames didn’t breach the entrance. Instead, they seemed to turn away, deflected away and dissipating as if repelled by a ward. The dragon was in a frenzy over it, repeating _“YOL TOOR SHUL”_ over and over before the preceding blast had even finished. Finally, it gave up on using its fires and began crawling towards the cave. Both Saga and Walks scrambled to their feet, despite the pain of the burns they had already received. A male voice from behind spoke up, “Don't bother. It can’t get in.”

Sure enough, the dragon stopped in its tracks just short of the spot where its flames had been repelled. It simply stood there, looming, fire in its eyes.

“How…” Saga began, keeping her eyes warily on the beast outside.

The voice, as of yet unmatched to a face, responded, “Don't you know where you are?” She peeled her eyes away from the dragon and turned around towards the interior of the cave. To her surprise, the cavern was not cramped and narrow, but large and expansive, not black or torch-lit orange, but shades of blue and green. She could make out the shapes of ferns and trees, even. It was an underground grove. Heedless of the dragon throwing a tantrum outside and the unknown man inside, who she still hadn't spared a glance at, Saga walked further in. The further inside she got, the clearer she could hear rushing water, the more trees and vines and other greenery she could see. She finally noticed what appeared to be exceedingly thick roots.

“This is…”

“Eldergleam,” the voice responded curtly before she could finish the thought. She couldn't see the enormous tree, yet, but just the roots alone were somehow awe-inspiring. Now she understood. The Eldergleam was an ancient tree, blessed by Kynareth herself. This was its grove, where they had escaped to.

Saga had prayed to Kynareth, and Kynareth had answered.

Saga began to turn towards the man, but her body soon remembered the fatigue in her limbs and the severity of her burns and instead collapsed onto the ground. The man, robed and hooded, walked into her field of view, shaking his head. “You're both severely injured.”

“No shit.”

The man shrank back for a half second, before puffing his chest out a bit, “Go crawl to a spot to rest, and I’ll see about healing you both.” He was a rather odd fellow, it seemed. Robed from head to toe, Saga couldn't tell much about his build or skin colour… or really anything else for that matter, as his cowl obscure his face rather completely. His voice growled out of his throat in an strange, awkwardly low octave.

Saga frowned. Crawling was not exactly ideal in her current state. “Can't you help us to a spot to rest?”

“I work with magic, not weights,” he said briefly, followed by a more quiet follow-up of “No way I could lift _you._ ” Saga assumed that part was not meant to be heard, as when she shouted _“What was that?!”_ he quickly scurried off. _Great, our help’s an ass._

While Saga crawled over to some mossy rocks to lie against, Walks had somehow managed to stay upright and shambled to one of Eldergleam’s roots, which he leaned on for support. His scales must have protected him partially against the fire. Even his armour was intact, mostly, as whatever scaly hide it was made from appeared to be quite durable. Saga’s own attire was in tatters.

Her voice was by then giving out, but if there was one thing Nords were good at, it was shouting. She called to the robed man, who was walking towards them from further in the cave, taking his sweet time about it, “Oi, No-Name, ya going ta help us out or not?”

He shouted in response, “My name is Aethelgurd, not No-Name,” but the rest of his sentence was too quiet to hear. Saga wouldn't have been able to pay attention to anything after it, anyway. She was too busy laughing at what she decided to be the silliest name she had ever heard. The fit of laughter hurt like Oblivion, of course, but the little release was worth it. She was almost inclined to thank the weird man for having such a ridiculous-sounding name. It never really occurred to her that she was probably more than a wee bit loopy from coming off her adrenaline high.

Beside her, still leaning against the exposed root of the grand tree, Walks was laughing too, a strange hissing sound mixed with what sounded like rough gurgling. The Argonian was evidently a bit silly after the ordeal, himself. She grinned tiredly at him, “Why are you laughing?”

“I don’t know. You?”

“Can’t remember.”

 

 

* * *

 

_The North-Western Rift:_

 

Aodh wasn't quite sure how long he had been in the cave. When he got deeper in, he discovered that the upper cavern led into a Nordic ruin below, and rather than storm the ruins unprepared, he took a few moments to fortify himself. The Dunmer warmed himself next to a large basin-like lantern positioned a ways in front of the ruin entrance and fed himself a small meal of bread and charred skeever hide. Unfortunately, this was typical of his meals when on the road; charred skeever hide stayed “fresh” for longer than other selections of meat, was cheaper to purchase, easier to obtain independently, and aided Aodh in keeping his fortitude up. The fact that it tasted exactly as you'd expect a skeever to taste was regrettable.

He then carefully packed his things back and went about checking on the condition of his equipment. Aside from a few scratches on his cuirass and wrist-guards, his armour was completely intact, and there wasn't a single hole in his chain mail. His crossbow, too, was still in good shape, which he was thankful for; his crossbow was often the piece of equipment that endured the most abuse. Just in case of something happened to it, though, Aodh also checked to make sure his bow was in good condition as well. It wouldn't do to be caught with both a broken crossbow and a broken bow. The bow was looking a bit worn, but he concluded that it would hold up as long as it wasn't put under too much stress. Satisfied, Aodh downed a magicka potion (which tasted remarkably similar to the skeever) and pushed open the creaking doors into the crypt.

Fortunately for Aodh, these ruins were not particularly maze-like, as some others were. Most likely, this was the resting place of some local chieftain or minor warrior-hero who was less important than the more notable Nordic heroes. Aodh thanked Azura for the Nord’s lack of notoriety. The bigger crypt complexes were an absolute pain.

Aodh steadily trekked down the halls, looking out for the draugr that were oft to surprise the unwary by awakening from the more shadowy alcoves. Curiously, there didn't seem to be any of the mummified dead around, at least none that were awakened. Even in the more dormant ruins, there were usually at least a few draugr lurking about. Odd. Despite his better judgement to set the bodies aflame as he passed them, desecrating the dead was not what he was there for; his fires were reserved for the thralls of whatever necromancer had taken up residence here. And the necromancer himself, naturally.

Ahead, the Dunmer heard the _swish swash_ of one of the more popular Nordic traps. Turning the corner, he saw the swinging pendulum blades that went along with the noise. Aodh squinted his eyes, red irises flickering in the firelight of torches. He frowned. The pendulum corridor was exceptionally long, several meters to the end, with the swinging blades spaced only half a meter apart, sweeping across the path about every second or two. Normally, one could simply charge through these corridors, with good timing. This one, however, stretched too long for that. An unladen man would need super-human timing and speed to sprint the length, and a man like Aodh, weighed down by heavy armour and gear, even more so.

He'd need to take the corridor one pendulum at a time.

His eyes focused on the motion of the blades, taking note of the timing.

_Right._

_One-Mournhold… Two-Mournhold…_

_Left._

_One-Mournhold… Two-Mournhold…._

_Right._

Aodh quickly lunged forward past the first blade. The pendulums seemed to have slightly varying periods, some swung every second, others every two, and still others in between. But cautiously, he slipped past another, then another, then another, until he was halfway through the corridor, then two thirds, then-

Then a fireball shot down the corridor towards him.

It hit Aodh like a brick and sent him stumbling back half a step, which was a half-step enough that when the swinging blade behind him swung again, it caught on the bow slung across his back and pulled him hard against the wall to his right. He could hear another fireball being charged at the end of the hall, undoubtedly also meant for him. To his distinct unhappiness, the pendulum had him pinned to the wall by his bow, however, and he found that he could barely move from that position.

He gritted his teeth and as he heard the second fireball being launched, then he lurched hard at the opposite wall, using his weight and speed to counteract the pendulum, until _SNAP_ , his bow fractured and came apart, freeing the Dunmer. He hit the wall just soon enough to avoid the fireball, which slammed into the spot where he had just been standing. He grunted and started marching past blade after blade, even as the fireballs kept coming. Now that he knew to expect them, they were easy enough to avoid. He got into a rhythm of sorts:

_Blade._

_Step._

_Sidestep._

_Blade._

_Step._

_Sidestep._

He finally cleared the corridor and quickly discovered where all the active draugr from the rest of the crypt had gone. This chamber was positively teeming with them. In the middle of the room stood a single, hooded woman in dark robes with her arms crossed, a cruel smirk on her lips. She was flanked by several armoured skeletons like those he had encountered in the upper cave. Behind her was a large, curved wall with writing etched into it that Aodh could neither decipher nor had the time to. Otherwise, the room was rather plain, though quite wide and tall, with platforms along the edges, where draugr stood ready.

“Don't kill him, boys, I want him alive- for now,” she said, grinning devilishly, “He'll make an excellent thrall.” And with that command, the draugr advanced from all sides.

Aodh readied his crossbow, which was luckily still intact, and laid down a fire rune in the path of the largest group of undead. It exploded magnificently, but unfortunately only took out half of that cluster. He laid down another, which took out most of the rest of that group, then turned around towards another group advancing from the other direction. Aodh reached into his satchel and found a small jar of liquid: a potion he had created in case of emergencies. Aodh had decided about twenty seconds prior that this constituted an emergency.

He uncorked the bottle, which remained in his bag, drew a bolt from his quiver, dipped the tip into the jar, then loaded his crossbow with it. The Dunmer squeezed the trigger and the bolt flew through the air, right into the skull of a draugr in the middle of the group that had his attention at the time. The other draugr were still far enough away that he could keep an eye on the necromancer, who had by then realised that Aodh might have been a bit too much to simply leave her minions to and was charging another fireball in her hands. Aodh smirked as he counted down, _Three… Two… One…_

The bolt that he had fired into the group of draugr erupted in flames, catching the entire cluster on fire and felling a dozen or so, as well as throwing off the necromaner’s aim. The fireball whized by his head as he charged at an oncoming skeleton and threw a punch at its face. His armoured fist made short work of the skeleton’s skull. Just as he was taking aim at the necromancer herself, he felt his limbs tense up. For that matter, everything had tensed up. Unable to correct his equilibrium, the Dunmer fell to the floor, and the necromancer advanced on him. Aodh recognised the look of a paralysis spell in her hands.

“You're either very brave or very stupid,” she spat out before kneeling down next to him. On the bright side, her minions had stopped attacking. On the darker side, the necromancer was prying Aodh’s crossbow from his paralysed hands and pulling his shortsword from its sheath. Aodh could only grunt as she disarmed him.

“Get him on his feet!” she shouted at her thralls, two of which (two of the skeletons) took him by his arms and hoisted him upright. He could feel the sensation returning, but his muscles were still too tense to move freely.

The necromancer had sashayed (their sort always seemed to be fond of theatrics) across the chamber and set Aodh’s weapons aside. She drew a small, curved knife from her robe and returned to him. “Such a pretty face,” she began, before brandishing the knife in front of his eyes,“But I think I'll like it better dead. We'll see to that in perhaps a day or so.” Aodh, by then, had control of his mouth once more and put this control to great effect by spitting on the woman.

She did not seem to appreciate the gesture. “You know, I was going to keep you alive for awhile longer, along with the other prisoner, but now…” she said, that wicked grin creeping over her face again, “I think I’ll dispatch with the both of you. You came here for the prisoners, right? Well, come with me, then.”

Aodh was of course unable to move his legs well enough to walk, but his skeletal escorts drug him behind their master as she led them into a room behind the chamber they had been in. This smaller room smelled horrid, and the walls had splashes of red here and there. In the back of the room was a large cage with a single inhabitant: an Imperial man, no older than 30, with curly black hair and dark olive skin. He looked weary and frightened, especially when the necromancer opened the cage door and pulled him out. There were no other prisoners left aside from him. “Good news, Imperial,” she scoffed at him, “You'll be joining your friends soon. And all thanks to this fellow, here.” She motioned to Aodh, whose arms were finally regaining the ability to move.

The woman sauntered back over to Aodh, brandishing the knife again. “So... I’d like to make it quick and painless, but that would certainly take the fun out of it,” she cooed, sliding the blade of the knife against his cheek. The blade was less than ideally sharpened and made a rough, if shallow, cut in Aodh’s dark skin, compelling him to grit his teeth harshly and consider spitting on her again. The woman pulled the knife back and admired the stinging wound she had made, before continuing her speech, “You won't be dying just yet, of course, but in a bit you'll be too busy _screaming_ to really speak much, so… any last words, Sir Hero?”

He frowned. The paralysis hadn’t completely faded yet, but if he didn't do something soon, he’d be too dead to do much of anything else. Aodh mustered all the strength he had in his arm and reached back to pull an arrow from his quiver; one thing that she had neglected to remove. With a burst of strength, he swung his hand at the woman, tip of the arrow nestled between his fingers.

The attack connected right where he had hoped:  rather deeply in the necromancer’s neck. Blood spurted from her jugulars and the woman collapsed in front of him. Her thralls all did the same.

Aodh stood before the woman, albeit a bit wobbly, and looked down on her. “Any last words?” he asked, to which she only answered with a sort of gurgling sound. He let a dark smirk cross his lips, “I suppose not, then. How rude.” Within a couple of minutes, the gurgling had stopped, and a pool of blood was rapidly growing near Aodh’s feet.

The prisoner had apparently run off, leaving Aodh alone to check for any valuables.


End file.
